


Your Slaughterhouse, Your Killing Floor, Your Morgue

by likeasugarcube



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Brainwashing, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, M/M, Memory Loss, Missing Scene, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeasugarcube/pseuds/likeasugarcube
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The soldier does not want. He has no desires of his own. He exists only to carry out the will of his handlers. The only feeling allowed to him is pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Slaughterhouse, Your Killing Floor, Your Morgue

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something about the Winter Soldier's relationship with pain and this happened. I'm so sorry. Title swiped from a Richard Siken poem.

The soldier blinks until his vision comes into focus. He searches his mind for the last thing he can remember. It's a haze, always a haze. There was ice, he thinks. It was ice and then he was here. His hands are bound, his face is pressed against a cold, damp floor. There's a faint sound coming from -- somewhere. It's a human sound. Crying? No, that’s not it. Whimpering. Yes, that's the word. His head is still too full of fog, senses aren't sharp the way they're supposed to be.

He needs to focus. He tries to remember his mission but there's nothing in his memory but ice and fog. The only thing he knows is his mission. If there is no mission he must wait for one. The soldier does not want. He has no desires of his own. He exists only to carry out the will of his handlers. The only feeling allowed to him is pain. And more often than not, his body understands it better than his brain does. Pain can affect the mission, can slow it down, stop it entirely. It's best for the mission if he doesn't allow it to distract him.

He thinks -- he thinks he might be in pain now. His knees scrape against the concrete and it takes a moment before it registers that he’s not alone. He’s not the one causing his body to move. There's a hand in his hair, fingers tightening, and another in the center of his back. Dull fingernails scrape down his spine and now he can hear labored breathing along with the whimpering sounds. They're not being made by the same people. 

“Quiet,” a gruff voice says from somewhere behind him. 

It’s almost familiar, like something he heard in a dream. But that doesn’t make sense. The soldier doesn’t dream. He sleeps when they make him and wakes when they need him. There’s no time for dreaming. The command sinks in slowly. _Be quiet._

He hasn’t spoken though, has he? Why would he? His handlers are the one who speak. They give him his orders, they tell him how important he is to the cause. His missions are carried out in silence. He tries to remember what his voice sounds like and cannot. It does not surprise him. He remembers little apart from his training. 

“Dammit,” the voice says. “I told you to be quiet.”

There’s anger behind the words and a strong hand pulling at his shoulder, raising him up off the concrete and onto his hands and knees. The soldier’s brain immediately begins to calculate the threat. What’s going on, where is he, what does he need to do to complete the mission? His heart races, adrenaline pumping. There is no mission. He has no answers to these questions. He doesn’t understand.

The hand in his hair tugs his head back and there’s an object pushing against his lips. He blinks again until his vision focuses. His mouth opens instinctively as the bite block comes into his line of sight. The block means pain. It means a blinding white light, searing pain, and the screams that echo in his head until there’s nothing left but emptiness.

None of that happens. The hands push him back down to the floor, cold cement against his cheek once more. The sounds from earlier are muffled. Muffled against the block, he realizes. It had been him from the start. His body has been trying to give him the answers his brain couldn’t process. He’s been in pain all along. 

The questions no longer matter. He may as well still be in stasis. He hasn’t received his mission yet. All there is to do is wait. The soldier closes his eyes. The labored breathing continues, eventually turning into grunts. Fingers dig into his skin. The pain continues. He waits. He retreats into the empty darkness of his mind, thinks about ice and fog and nothing else. The amount of time passing escapes his notice. On a mission time can be important. Minutes, seconds, they may make the difference between a failed mission and a successful one. But here, time doesn’t seem to matter. 

“Fuck!” the voice groans. The body behind him stills. The soldier hears the sound of a door opening and a stream of light floods into the room.

"Rumlow!" This voice is different, farther away. "Are you done with him yet?"

"Just finished," the voice -- Rumlow, says.

"Hurry up. Pierce wants him ready to head out in an hour."

Rumlow stands. His combat boots step into the soldier's line of sight. He hears the sound of a zipper and a belt being buckled.

"Stand," Rumlow orders.

The soldier pushes himself up off the floor, ignoring the aches and soreness across his body. Rumlow reaches out and unlocks the restraint around his hands. The shackle falls to the floor loudly. The soldier raises a hand to his face and his fingers come back wet.

“Pull up your pants.”

The soldier lifts his head to look at Rumlow and then back down to stare at his fingers. The metal ones don’t move as quickly as the flesh and blood ones. Strange, he thinks. It seems it should be the other way around. A hand not his own curls around his throat, lifting his head. 

“Did you hear me?” Rumlow asks. “Pull up your pants. You’re _needed._ ”

The soldier nods. He obeys the command. He always obeys. 

“Follow me,” the man in the doorway says.

The hallway is bright, too bright. He ducks his head, shielding himself from the light. So much time in the darkness, it’ll take some time to get used to the light again. 

“Pierce won’t be happy about this,” the other man says to Rumlow. Rumlow’s mouth splits open into a smile, he laughs softly. The other man looks confused. The soldier doesn’t understand either.

“Who do you think told me to take him for a spin?” Rumlow says.

At the end of the hall is a room. In the room are more bright lights. In the room there are also men with orders. 

“This is your mission,” they say.

They hand him a folder. Inside is a photo of a man with an eye patch.

“We want you to kill this man,” they say. “He’s trying to stop our good work.”

The soldier nods. Orders have been given. He knows what he must do. The pain subsides.


End file.
